Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
by Swift Satire Inc
Summary: Fresh from a confidence-shattering encounter with Snape, displeased with his progress on the Dark Lord's assignment, a depressed and beleaguered Draco seeks comfort in the tender arms of the flame-haired girl of his dreams.


**AN: **Characters belong to JK. But the forbidden love they share belongs to us all.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

**The icy, British wind whipped Draco's glossy, swept back hair, the moonlight gilding it an even paler shade than that which the special hair products (which he had sent for after seeing an advertisement in Witch Weekly that promised to give "exceptionally fine and lustrous locks") normally endowed him with. His cloak whirled about him dramatically - he rather liked that touch - but it also meant that his legs were cold even through his trousers, which was less heroic. If one wanted to be heroic, which Draco mused he didn't really. He much preferred to be a powerful, commanding, beautiful villainous presence.**

Villains also didn't carry tear-stained handkerchiefs with them. Draco's own, freshly sodden from an encounter with the freakishly nosy Snape, was sitting reproachfully in his left breast pocket, as if to remind him that beautiful villains also didn't burst into tears when others were present. But life was just too stressful for Draco, these days. And nobody got him. Nobody loved him.

He sighed then, quite a different sigh from his normal, noble and forlorn version. This was because, rather than thinking of his own consequence, Draco was for once entranced by an image other than his own: an image with long, slender legs and a wild red mane and just the faintest trace of freckles sprinkled across the most perfect face he had ever contemplated. Well, the second most perfect face. Draco really couldn't compare anyone, in all honesty, with himself. It just wasn't done (or fair to those in comparison).

As he leaned mournfully against a tall, imposing pine on the edge of the forest near Hagrid's hut, contemplating the futility of life, love, and happiness, he caught the faintest trace of bright orange whipping around one of the walls of the pathetic little hut. His fevered, lovesick, sixteen-year-old mind instantly jumped in the vicinity of amorous thought, but then reason took over. Probably he had just seen a cardinal. Cardinals were orange, right? And flew around for no particular reason at night? Yes, it must have been a cardinal.

Nonetheless, Draco found his legs carrying him in that direction. He'd never really had time for bird-watching, but suddenly thought that he might now be persuaded otherwise. It couldn't prove more of a disaster than the task that the Dark Lord had set him. But that was an ill-timed reminder of what had brought him into the Forbidden Forest in the first place. Gloomily, Draco contemplated what toll Lord Voldemort's wrath would take upon his much vaunted good looks. He would hardly be able to face a mirror afterward, he was sure.

This dismal picture might have dissuaded him entirely from his pursuit of that flutter of orange, except there it was again, sparking bright against the dark monotony of the trees and the squalid little gamekeeper's dwelling.

He began to creep the meters towards the pumpkin patch. Pumpkins, and cardinals, and her hair- except, no, not her hair. A fixation on her hair was unacceptable (especially when his own took so much time to maintain). But lusting after other orange things, purely because they were orange? That seemed healthy enough to Draco.

And as he lurked through the pumpkin patch, he thought he heard a rustling from inside the cabin. Merlin, he thought. Perhaps Hagrid's hut had been invaded by doxies? Hagrid certainly wasn't home. He had it on Death Eater Intelligence that the clumsy oaf was out of the country, attempting to introduce Blast-Ended Skrewts into the Moldavian countryside. What could be inside the hut at this hour?

Naturally, Draco went to the door. His hand paused on the doorknob, finely tapered fingers clenching the worn brass in unexpected nervousness. Or was it anticipation? Whatever it was, Draco pushed it aside and barged in.

And...

There she was. Oh Merlin, she was twice as wonderful as he had imagined, countless nights. He was almost willing to concede that she was half as perfect as himself. It was a generous impulse, and one Draco had never before felt called to consider. Right now, the waving tresses were all he could see above mud-stained Quidditch robes. Vaguely, he realized that practice must have only just ended. And then she turned to face him and Draco forgot to use what little of his brain he reserved for abstract thought.

For a moment, Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy just faced each other. Then Draco decided that some sort of statement would be only polite, not to mention put him on better footing with the vision before him.

"My..." He stammered. "What...what beautiful brown eyes you have." It came out, just like that. Draco was mortifed. But Ginny only smiled widely at him. "The better to see the marvelous symmetry of your face, my dear." She cooed. And smiled even wider. Draco was hooked.

"And such glorious, white teeth." He said.  
"The better to...well, I'm sure I can find lots of uses to put them towards now, can't I?" And with that Ginny Weasley began to untie the laces fastening her cloak around her neck.

"Bbbuuhhhhh..." Draco felt all his breath instantly leave him, and was reduced to swaying, goggle-eyed, and utterly unable to fashion any sort of intelligible response.

Because it was as if all of his wildest fantasies, his most deeply repressed dreams, had suddenly materialized right before his eyes. Because as long as he could remember having feelings about girls, there had always been one girl- one girl, with her devilish chocolate eyes and ever-present smirk, who could take the mickey from her older brothers and dish it out in return. Draco Malfoy loved Ginny Weasley the Blood Traitor with every fiber of his Death Eater being. And now she was standing there, being all sexual and stuff.

She glided over. "Draco," she breathed into his left ear. "Draco. I'm quite encumbered with all of this Quidditch... stuff. Do be a gentleman and... help me, would you?"

Well, if only the Dark Lord would give him a request like that. Only...you know, for a girl. Draco was happy to oblige the ravishing redhead. in the next moment they were entwined, her long hair enveloping him, his arms wrapped securely around her. For someone who had spent the last hour flying through rain and splashing in mud, she tasted wonderful, like the gardens with the white peacocks at the family manor, and his favorite white chocolate birthday cakes, and everything that he remembered fondly from his childhood. At first their lips only brushed, but quickly they were exploring each others' mouths, roughly, urgently. Lustily.

His hand slipped from where it was cradling her delicate, swanlike neck, and down one graceful arm. It stopped short when it came into contact with dragonhide. "I, er- I do not find this sexy. I should remove it. If that's acceptable," he spoke hesitantly.

"Oooh, do. In fact, I want you to remove all of my Quidditch padding. Now." Ginny's espresso irises looked up imploringly at her porcelain-skinned paramour.

Draco growled with anticipation, swooped to kneel on the ground, and began delacing Ginny's right elbow pad. With his teeth. Because he'd read that in one of those trashy Muggle books his mother was always reading, and it seemed sexy. Evidently it was, because Ginny began moaning "Oh, Draco. OH DRACO." over and over.

After the first fifteen minutes, he had managed to remove her right elbow pad and left arm guard, and Ginny's repetitions had become much less frequent. And had a hint of boredom crept into her voice? Draco began to nibble at the fastenings of her left elbow pad, wishing his teeth were somewhat harder or more agile. Why did Quidditch padding require so very many laces, and straps with tiny tiny buckles? And why did it all taste so vilely of mud? He was sure his teeth would never regain their former pristine hue.

After an hour, the pads were all off. Finally. Ginny's moans had devolved into a sort of languid murmur, more for his benefit than anything else. Draco was panting as he finally ripped the last ankle guard free and threw it across Hagrid's cabin, where it landed with a thunk next to the firewood.

"And now your robe." He told her, somewhat less sensually this time. Ginny gave him a look that had "if you insist" writ clearly all over. Draco chose to ignore this unromantic reaction and instead began to chew fervently at the strings closing the rich, crimson robe across her chest. Fragments of red and gold fabric went flying - a few shreds dangled from his teeth - but Draco was victorious. The robe had come free in less than a minute, and to celebrate he allowed himself the privilege of using his hands to strip it from Ginny's limp body and let it fall to the ground.

Next, Draco prostrated himself in front of Ginny. He cast one long, lingering glance at her knee-high boots with their very complicated array of interlocking laces, and as he was opening his mouth, Ginny cut him off. "Er- stop. I mean, I'll do my shoes myself! Haha," Ginny spoke quickly, as she bent down and began delacing her Quidditch boots. "Very well," Draco conceded. "But let me, with your socks?" he inquired. "Oh. All right," Ginny replied grudgingly. And Draco's mouth closed around one big toe. With only a moderate degree of squeamishness, he managed to suck both sweaty, dirt-encrusted encumberances off of Ginny's elegant feet.

But as his lips moved towards the hem of her scarlet jumper, Ginny jumped away. "ACROMANTULA-FIBER JUMPER. I can remove my acromantula-fiber jumper with my hands, please, it's rather expensive" she exclaimed, as she whipped what was actually a mundane sheep's-wool jumper from her bizarrely bulky torso. Draco had expected excitement- his first set of breasts since his mother had stopped breastfeeding him at age four!- and, alas, was immediately devastated. For Ginny's brilliance was marred by a horrifically ugly set of long underwear. She glanced down. "Ah. Well. It was chilly tonight. I wanted to be practical. I was hardly expecting a midnight assignation with a wannabe Death Eater in Hagrid's cabin," she murmured by way of apology. "I mean really!"

But Draco had gotten over the first flush of disappointment, and instead laid his hands on Ginny's hips, looking much more promising in their tight encumbrance of white Quidditch breeches. She gyrated slightly beneath his touch, some of the flush returning to her cheeks. "That's more like it." She cooed down at him. And then, with a flourish, Draco undid the buttons holding up those thin breeches and let them fall to the floor.

And again, his eyes were scorched by a vast, immeasurable expanse of sullen gray wool, the color of unlaundered socks.

"AGGHH! MY EYES!" He screamed, averting them before permanent damage could be done and writhing in agony at the sight of his goddess swathed in so much unfashionable English woolen. Ginny got the message, and by the time sight had returned to Draco, she had kindly removed the offensive garments herself, and stood before him in all the brazen glory of her lithe, slender body and supple, curving hips. Delicate black lace clung to her waist in what could only be loosely described as panties. A matching lace brassiere cupped her tender, youthful bosom, and offered just the right amount of support and separation that is the desperate hope of all women when they enter a lingerie shop. Draco was rendered speechless (a not uncommon state of being for a sixteen-year-old boy, who was an average student in all areas except for potions, but in this case, we'll call his reaction, dear reader, romantic).

Ginny bent down, affording Draco a delicious view of her slim back and the promising roundness of flesh beyond, and when she straightened she held her wand in one hand. Remembering all too well the many instances in which he had found himself at the mercy of her bat-bogey hex, Draco felt a moment of panic, but survival paled in comparison with the delights tantalizingly promised by that practically naked body before him, and so he swallowed his nerves as Ginny waved her wand...and promptly vanished every stitch of Draco's clothing.

This was much more aggravating than a bat-bogey hex even.  
"Those were custom made!" Draco gasped in disbelief. "Twenty gold galleons for that monogrammed silk shirt! And my dragon-hide loafers! Where did you put them?" Ginny only smiled, laid down the wand, and sidled closer to Draco, who swallowed a comment about his priceless silver and emerald cuff links and instead found his mouth dry with anticipation as she swung her hair back over one shoulder, nestled her body close to his, and wrapped one long, limber leg around his own. Her eyes fluttered closed as she tilted her face up. Draco let out a shuddering sigh as he slowly lowered his lips to her cupid's bow of a mouth; his long fingers crept up Ginny's smooth back, and buried themselves in the pesky bra fastenings that ladies undergarments always seemed to sport. After about five minutes of desperate fumbling and desperate tonguing, Ginny broke their kiss, whispered "I've got it," and deftly removed her bra, because it really isn't that hard.

Draco took a step back to admire Ginny's breasts in all their adolescent glory. Perfect, perky globes just begging for him to awkwardly paw in the way only a sixteen-year old boy can manage. Draco began to do just that- envisioning himself as some sort of suave Casanova, with a delicate, lingering touch that simply melted the hearts of women, while in reality he gave off more of an Edward Scissor-hands vibe. Ginny seemed game enough however. She murmured his name in a voice like velvet as he laid waste to her chest, and her thin, expressive hands buried themselves in his blonde hair. Or...well, she tried her hardest. There was so much product in those svelte locks that they could repel acid rain, probably, not to mention the loving attention of a woman in the throes of passion. So she contented herself was petting his head as one might a pet orca that was slippery, slightly damp and none too pleasant to the touch.

Emboldened by his victory over Ginny's heaving bosom, Draco softly spoke. "What say we move this party... down?" he breathed in between the wet, sucking kisses he planted on her frame as he slowly lowered his body to kneel in front of hers. He dipped his fingertips in the band of her lacy thong, and painstakingly lowered the scrap of fabric down her pale, muscley Quidditch thighs. "Aaaaaaaah." he released a sigh of pent-up sexual frustration. "Now we're even. We're both..."

Instead of letting Draco finish the sentence, Ginny brought his head up to hers and began furiously making out with him as she ground her pelvis into his. "Oh, my," thought Draco, seconds before Ginny threw him onto a bed of Hagrid's magic bearskins, and began to ravish his nether regions. Draco blacked out from passion.

He awoke, nestled on a soft bosom. He couldn't remember much about the night before, but- Ginny? Had he actually gone all the way with the woman of his dreams? "Ohhh, Ginny," he whispered, as he nestled deeper into his womanly pillow.

"Yeah. About last night." oozed an evil voice, much deeper than Ginny's melodic tones. Immediately a frisson of fear and panic singed through Draco's bloodstream. Only one person had a voice so significant of ultimate depravity and utter evil. This was not a good sign. He raised his head, his normally polished hair now unkempt and tousled. An older woman- much older- was lounging back, snakelike tendrils of dark hair strewn across a few rabbit hair pillows. Heavy, lidded eyes surveyed him with trademark disdain as her sharply boned hand removed the cigarette protruding from her lips. Bellatrix Lestrange blew smoke at Draco Malfoy's face.

"Look, I can see that it's taking all of your present brainpower to construct some sort of response. I'll explain while you're busy working your face into a proper emotion. What you might already be contemplating, if you possess any sort of intelligence at all, is that you did not, in fact, have sex with Ginny Weasley last night. Actually, you didn't have any sort of run-in with the blood traitor brat at all." Bellatrix began, extinguishing her cigarette on an unlucky flobberworm making a poorly timed escape from underneath the sofa.

"Buuuuuuh-" blubbered Draco.

"BUUUUH. BUUUUUH. BUUUUUUUH!" cackled Bellatrix. "Don't be so stupid, Draco. You sound like some sort of nasty squib. The facts are the facts. The Dark Lord entrusted me to watch over you- you didn't really think he thought Severus up to the job, did you? He's just- he's so very timid. Sometimes these things need a woman's touch, wouldn't you agree? So, the Dark Lord whipped up Polyjuice Potion. He's just so brilliant.", Bellatrix breathed, her eyes adopting that manic look they always got whenever Voldemort's name was mentioned. Draco tried to wrap his mind around the fact that he'd just passed an evening with a woman whose standard for masculine beauty lacked a nose. If possible, he felt even more nauseated.

"Polyjuice?" He repeated dumbly. Bellatrix shot him a withering look. "Yes, you utter dolt. Do I need to spell it out any more clearly to you? You were obviously flagging in your devotion to your duty. You needed a certain...ego boost. I figured one night of illicit passion would do the trick. Plus," Bellatrix continued, "The Dark Lord has been... rather busy, as of late. A little too busy for his most trusted, most loyal servant. Mama needs her sugar." She cast a deprecating glance at Draco. "You were really my only option.

"It was an easy enough matter to steal some dirty laundry - I suppose you can brag that you at least got inside Ginny Weasley's pants, although she wasn't in them at the time. And of course, there were a few long, unmistakably red hairs on that hideous red jumper. I popped them into the potion, downed it, and...well." Draco's aunt smiled nastily in his direction. "Did you have a nice evening?" She inquired in a fake, sweet voice.

"I'll- Mother-" he stammered.

"Draco, Draco, Draco," she cooed. "Nobody is going to tell anybody anything about last night! What are you going to say, that you slept with me because you thought I was a blood traitor? Please. And your friends at school- what would they think, if you confessed feelings for a Weasley? No, nothing needs to be said about last night. Although," her voice suddenly sharpened, "If you continue to fail at your duty, I might just let something... slip. Not about us of course. Cissy would be peeved. She does not understand devotion to the Dark Lord as I do. But something about you and that bit of a blood traitor would suffice, I think. Mark my words, Draco." Bellatrix's tone was uncompromising. "Mark them well."

But then, to his relief, Draco once again blacked out, overwhelmed by his newly precarious position, his shattered illusions, and his generally weak constitution and character. When he awoke, he was alone, it was evening, and the only token of the disastrous liaison remaining was a single elbow pad, placed directly in front of the drool-stained floor beneath his face. It was hers, truly hers. Draco would treasure it always.

**Epilogue**: Gryffindor Quidditch Practice, 1 week later

"Hey, has anyone seen my left elbow pad?" Ginny Weasley called out crossly to the other members of the team as she geared up for another disappointing practice. Peakes and Coote, the two beaters, exchanged shrugs and Ginny gave a growl of exasperation. Dean Thomas only glowered at her, still not over their argument the previous evening. No help from that quarter. Ginny gave it up. She never did find her missing pad. Luckily, she didn't break an arm either- at least, not until Hagrid returned, unsuccessful, from Moldavia, and requested help unloading the Blast-Ended Skrewts. "I need all the help I can get." He explained apologetically. "Sommat got up into my cabin while I was gone. It's a right proper mess."

**FIN**


End file.
